The Metamorphosis
by justrumbelledearie
Summary: Rumplestiltskin will protect his young bride, even if it means barricading the doors and shuttering the windows. The tighter he clings, the faster his human façade falls away. Set during & post-'There's No Place Like Home."
1. The Breakfast Tray

When Rumplestiltskin woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found his circumstances had changed to such a degree that he scarcely recognized himself.

He possessed the devotion of a fair and virtuous woman, a woman who loved him _for himself_—or, rather, the closest approximation that he will ever willingly show her. Belle pledged only yesterday to wed him _'as soon as humanly possible, Rumple,'_ and her melting kisses and sweetly enfolding arms have heretofore only hinted at how miraculous his second wedding night will be.

His power and his agency are at long last returned to him. All remaining threats to himself and his family have been—how to put it nicely—neutralized. His nettlesome, feral dagger, unbeknownst to all, is now safely sealed beneath a veritable _mountain_ of spells.

And what of this trifling—oh, how to phrase it—slight-of-hand?

Rumplestiltskin will gladly gratify his winsome young bride's every wish. He will happily indulge her every passing fancy, her every dainty, guileless craving. In all ways that can possibly matter, Belle is in full possession of his vast and plentiful power.

After tonight, he will be forevermore entirely at her service.

She really need never be the wiser.

Lastly—_yes, but crucially_—he has the filmy residue of his boy's memories, tucked away within the dark crannies of his skull. Whenever Rumplestiltskin wishes, he can summon up the precise timber of Bae's voice at two, twelve, or thirty-two, the taste of the hardtack his boy mouthed while cutting his milk teeth on the blanket beside the hearth, the fierce, astonished pride Bae took in his young son Henry, and the inexorable, unswerving love—yes, inexhaustible, begrudging _love,_ buried fathoms deep, not easily unearthed—that he always had for his poor, flawed Papa.

All that is now standing between Rumplestiltskin and his bittersweet, nearly-happy ending is a simple ceremony—the when and the where of it Belle has left entirely up to his discretion—and then he will finally be _at rest._

No more scheming, no more struggles, no more hoarding nasty artifacts, no more trickery, no more tedious deals.

He and his innocent beauty will pledge their troth by moonlight—the most auspicious setting for such an occasion—and seal their tender vows with True Love's Kiss. After they have made their promises, they will walk off into the darkness together, hand-in-hand. And when all is said and pledged and done, they will—_together, yes always together_—climb up the steep porch stairs and step over the narrow threshold of the pink house.

They need never walk out again.

He and his Belle will live on easy magic and treacly-sweet love and perilously tall stacks of books. He will keep her always by his side—safe, protected—come what may. He will spin, and she will read and write, and when her auburn hair has grown snow-white, and when her plump, pink flesh has thinned and creased, when—_say it!_—Belle takes her final breath—well, he has snuffed out his own life-spark before, hasn't he? Nothing to it, not really—not when you possess the correct instrument, the iron will, and the impetus.

Let this world and all the rest of them go to hell; Rumplestiltskin will have his happiness at last.

There is a soft knock upon his bedroom door, followed by the clink of china and a hushed question: "Rumple, are you awake?"

"I am—come in, pet."

He rolls over onto his side, bringing the burgundy sheet and heavy, brocade blanket along with him. His mischievous prick has already grown thick against his inner thigh—as it is often wont to do come morning—twitching, coming alive, thinking sportive thoughts of all that their future happiness might entail.

Belle doesn't yet know this side of him, the side that is crouched and coiled with a taut hunger, nearly insatiable. She doesn't yet know this side of any man—and thank all the stars in the heavens for that—but she will.

Soon enough, she will.

"I snuck out of bed before sunrise," she says, pushing open the heavy door with her fingertips. "I didn't want to wake you."

Belle has hold of the handles of a silver-plated breakfast tray. On it, Rumplestiltskin spies a crystal goblet filled with fruit juice, a whimsical porcelain teapot, his darling little damaged cup, and a brimming platterful of currant scones. Their buttery-sweet scent makes his mouth water and his crooked teeth ache.

Beside the steaming teapot is a long-stemmed, blood-red rose, displayed in a delicate bud vase.

Belle's face is flushed and merry; she is feeling triumphant after a successful bout with 'that infernal monster,' his electric oven.

"The crows woke me again," she explains, crossing the room and waiting for him to push upright in bed, "So I decided to go downstairs and attempt a new recipe. Be careful—these pastries are still very hot."

Once his back is pressed up against the gleaming, walnut headboard, Belle lowers the breakfast things onto his lap. After, she pulls a napkin from the pocket of her open robe and tucks it ceremoniously into the loose collar of his blue silk pajamas. If Belle notices a slight tenting of the blankets, an unevenness to the tray, she says nothing.

"Did you sleep well?" she asks, watching intently as he takes his first sip of Earl Grey. She has prepared this brew quite strong, without any sweetener, exactly to his specifications.

He did not, in point of fact, sleep well.

It has less to do with his nightmarish ordeal at the hands of that shrewish, slavering _witch_ and everything to do with Belle's curved, ripe little rear, pressed tight against his pelvis throughout the night. His little beauty likes him curled around her like ivy while she sleeps. She likes to feel his hot palm pressed against the curve of her lower belly and his warm breath ruffling her hair. It drives him nearly mad, Belle's chaste, entwining limbs and her contented, sleepy sighs, and—though he surely prizes her ethereal, unsullied innocence—it's a treasure that has also become an enemy.

Well, after tonight, no longer.

"Wherever did you find that splendid flower?" he asks, sipping his tea, keen to change the subject, "This isn't the season for it."

She licks her lips, takes the teacup from his lifted hands, and raises it to her rosy mouth, hiding a smile behind the rim.

"This is our flower, Rumple. The first one you ever gave me. I found it on a shelf in the backroom of your shop while I was sorting. I knew it was our rose straightaway because it never wilted nor lost its coloring."

Returning the teacup to the cluttered breakfast tray, Belle extends a fingertip and gently traces the curled, outer edges of the velvet petals. It sends a shiver through him, watching these unsavory, meditative caresses, and Rumplestiltskin moves his knees a little, pulling the flower out of reach. Something dark within his blood sings and buzzes and blooms. Glancing down at his wrists, he sees—instead of the usual latticework of faint, blue veins—thin lines of charcoal gray, snaking their way toward his slender hands.

"Tonight," he says, clenching his fists and changing the subject once again, "will be our wedding night, my darling Belle. Is there anything you would like for the ceremony? Something borrowed? Something blue, perhaps? I shall be your something old."

Belle has a chiming, musical little laugh, and he smiles to hear it, resting his head back against the headboard. She settles her weight beside him on the bed, careful not to unbalance the flatware.

"Let me feed you, Rumple," she clucks fondly, taking a piece of scone from his hand and placing it onto his waiting tongue. He snaps playfully at her fingers with his sharp, shining teeth and makes a great show of lustily smacking his lips and swallowing with immense delight.

"I don't think there's anything I need." Belle looks thoughtful, taking a piece of scone for herself and chewing slowly. "Only, I don't have a ring for you. And—"

She looks out the bedroom window, suddenly forlorn.

"What is it, pet? Only ask, and it will be yours."

"I wish that—my father could somehow be there."

Her words come tumbling out, halting and tremulous: "We haven't spoken to each other since that day in the mines—and I'm still so angry with him—and I know you don't like him—but, he's my _father—"_

"A father's love never falters," he finishes, thinking black thoughts and keeping them hidden. "I understand absolutely, love. Go and speak with him. Invite him to come. Tell him we won't wait for his blessing, but that we would be very glad to have it, all the same."

"Rumple!" she says, and since she cannot throw her arms around him and unbalance the tray, she grasps his left hand, lifting it to her mouth and kissing it joyfully. There are tears swimming in her lovely, sea-blue eyes when she lifts her head.

"And what about your ring? Shall I find a gold band from the shop?"

"This one will do." He gestures to the ostentatious blue stone, set in thick, glinting metal. "Early on, lifetimes ago, I was nearly incapacitated by the Dark Curse, but this ring helped me hone and refine it, made the magic slightly more manageable. Just like you honed and refined my human qualities, Belle. It will suit."

"Yes," she repeats, smiling, kissing his hand once more, "It will suit."


	2. The Father of the Bride

The first thing Maurice French notices upon arriving at 425 Cedar Street is that Gold's pink house is gone.

The deteriorating foundation of the garish Victorian still remains: crumbling, porous cement and craggy stone, jutting up above that insidious bastard's impeccably manicured lawn. The black granite planters and fastidious little shrubberies also remain, and the red tin flag on Gold's mailbox is upright, waiting on the mailman.

But the whole goddamn house is gone.

_Just what is that sneaky son of a bitch up to now?_

Maurice steals an uneasy glance over his shoulder and shifts his considerable bulk from foot to foot. He is holding a slender, white florist's box filled with blue delphinium—Belle's favorite flower. She used to press them between the pages of her books as a child and weave them into dainty garlands and fetching floral crowns. Her nurse would often scold her: "You mustn't be so absent-minded, milady! You're trailing petals wherever you go."

His little Blue-Belle—his darling child…

"Ah! You came."

Gold materializes from behind a squat, bare elm in the front yard, all at once dapper and supremely menacing. His shirt and tie are a knavish shade of blood-red, the same ghoulish color as his silk pocket square, and his dark wool suit is—as always—perfectly pressed and flawlessly tailored.

The cagey troll-bastard isn't holding the metal-tipped cane that shattered four of Maurice's ribs, fractured his right forearm, chipped his elbow, and left him painfully concussed, but the florist's heart rate skips and accelerates all the same. Gold closes the distance between them slowly, his gait steady and even, his smile full of flint.

"There was a message for me at the shop, asking me to come by your house. I thought that perhaps Belle…"

Maurice trails off, and Gold supplies the missing words, his voice dry and chill as arctic air: "A child calls, and a parent rushes to their side. Most especially if the child has been lost."

Contemplating the anxious, wary man in front of him, Rumplestiltskin passes his tongue over his thin lips.

It is an unwholesome shade of ash gray.

Now, there is a weak and slowly-shrinking part of him—a truly loathsome, pathetic part that has slobbered over soldiers' boots and dressed itself in soiled rags and knows what it is to gobble a charity meal from another man's open palm—that cannot help but feel a tinge of pity for the wary hopefulness writ large upon Maurice French's homely, sagging face. He cannot help but feel a slight kinship with this cringing, overeager father, pitifully clutching his cheap box of flowers, yearning for reconciliation with a beloved child.

Rumplestiltskin is no green, tenderhearted fool, however.

He tamps down on useless, tedious empathy and coolly cocks his head to one side.

"No, I left the message. I wanted to have a little chat."

"Where is my daughter?" Maurice's narrow eyes dart to the yawning hole in the earth, then back to the other man's cruelly impassive face. _"What happened to the house, Gold?"_

Rumplestiltskin glances absently over his shoulder.

"The house? I decided I didn't care for the location any longer. Too much street traffic. Too many prying eyes for my taste. Far too many busybody neighbors, asking for troublesome favors."

Rumplestiltskin wrinkles his sharp, hooked nose. "My wife and I prefer our solitude. My wife and I are tired of this town's endless parade of interruptions and complications. My wife and I are finished with the whole sorry lot of you."

After he has left off speaking, he regains control of his breathing and calmly examines the half-moons beneath his fingernails. They have turned a foreboding shade of sooty-black.

How interesting.

"Belle wouldn't—she would never marry without at least telling me beforehand. I don't believe you."

Desperation has crept in amongst the low gravel of Maurice's voice, though he struggles doggedly against it.

"Well, in any case," Rumplestiltskin retorts, his dark eyes sparking and flashing, "we're as good as." He lapses into a sinister, sing-song voice and waggles a mocking finger: "Tonight's the night!"

Unnerved, Maurice takes a stumbling step backwards toward the curb. He clutches the white florist's box to his bulky chest.

"And do you know what _my darling wife _wants for our private ceremony? Eh? Do you? _She wants your blessing._ She wants her dear, old, doting Papa to walk her down the aisle."

Rumplestiltskin laughs, because, really, it is the most delicious joke he has heard in ages. Then, for a hair-raising moment, he is fearful he won't be able to stop laughing—but he finds the mental brake switch and throws himself against it.

Maurice growls and rallies: "She'd have to crawl over my damned dead body! I would _never _consent for her to marry a goddamned sadistic, depraved monst—"

"Yes, yes, yes—I thought that's what you would say."

Rumplestiltskin huffs impatiently and snaps his fingers, and Maurice French vanishes in a swirl of putrid, purple smoke. In his place, dropped upon the tidy lawn, is an exquisite bouquet of white peonies.

He stoops over to retrieve the flowers, admiring their delicate purity—what a pretty piece of sorcery this is! While bent at the waist, he also snatches up the white florist's box. Then, lost in thought, Rumplestiltskin strolls slowly over to the gaping chasm in his front yard and carelessly drops the box of flowers over the edge. Far below, blue delphiniums spill out across the dry dirt.

Silently, he contemplates the forsaken site of his former home.

Snuffling around the rocky edges of the foundation, digging in the overturned earth, Rumplestiltskin spots a bunchy, whiskered, fat-faced mole. It struggles in the sunlight, moving the heavy gravel with creased, pink, nearly-human hands.

"Well, you'll do quite nicely."

With a tiny waggle of his ever-darkening fingertips, the mole becomes a heavy-set man with fleshy jowls and Maurice French's doleful, sour face.

"Your daughter is getting married today," he informs the Mole-Man conversationally, thrusting his swarthy, glittering hands deep into his pants pockets.

"She is? How wonderful." The Mole-Man's eyes are dim and stupid.

"It is wonderful. You are absolutely delighted."

"I am absolutely delighted," the Mole-Man repeats dutifully.

"Go and pay her a visit at the library. She wants to speak with you. Take her this bouquet of flowers. Apologize for acting like an idiot."

"I was acting like an idiot," the Mole-Man agrees, nodding seriously. "I am absolutely delighted about the wedding."

"Good man," Rumplestiltskin mutters, and turns on his heel to go.

Standing on the sidewalk, a scant five feet away, Dr. Hopper is watching him, holding tight to Pongo's leash. His face is as pale as a specter, his mouth is slightly ajar, and—thankfully—he appears to be rooted to the spot.

A minor complication.

"Hello, Mr. Hopper!" Rumplestiltskin strides quickly over. Maurice's double follows closely at his elbow, smelling of dirt.

"Mr. Gold, I—"

The Cricket is goggling at him from behind thick, smudged eyeglasses. Rumplestiltskin appraises his childish, checked sweater vest, the agitated, fluttering pulse point below his jawline, his preposterous, wind-mussed hair.

"Mr. Gold, please listen to me." The Cricket's voice is quavering, but he forges ahead bravely: "Deceit—it's like a cancer. It's is poison to love. I watched it play out in my own parents' marriage. It rotted our family from the inside out. Please don't do this—"

"I've always liked you, Dr. Hopper," Rumplestiltskin observes calmly, "but you _do_ tend to natter on."

He flashes a false, dead-eyed smile, and for a brief moment his teeth are a fearsome, rotting brown. Pongo strains at his leash, barking.

_"Please, Mr. Gold, don't you think Belle deserves better than—"_

"Yes, of course. Most women do, don't they?"

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Archie falls silent.

Rumplestiltskin walks off toward town without a backwards glance, humming a tuneless melody.

The Mole-Man turns to Archie and displays his bouquet of white peonies proudly. "My daughter is getting married today," he confides, "I am absolutely delighted."

"How wonderful," Archie replies, a dazed smile spreading across his face like sunlight. "You must be so proud."

"Yes," the Mole-Man agrees, "I am absolutely delighted."


	3. The Cold Banquet

During the handfasting ceremony, Belle had rooted him to the forest floor with her steady, gentle, forthright gaze.

The vows Rumplestiltskin had rehearsed in the tranquil privacy of his shop had unexpectedly flown away from him, and he was left to speak only the stark, implausible truth:

_I was the enemy of love—and yet somehow you love me. I am a monster—and yet somehow you see a man._

He does not doubt that Belle's troth was also very sweetly pledged, but, in truth, he heard nothing over the blood rushing in his ears, the mournful wind in the pines above them, and his blasted, howling curse—gasping and twisting and recoiling within the noisy cavern of his skull.

And yet—for a breathless, timeless moment, his bride's sea-blue gaze had held him mesmerized.

The very moment the Cricket pronounced those delectable words 'husband and wife,' the world around Rumplestiltskin became deathly still; it all shrank down to a pair of adoring, tear-filled blue eyes. And afterwards, with his darling Belle gathered up in his arms and her warm mouth covering his, he had to fight his way back to the surface of reality, as if emerging from a narcotic stupor.

The sweet spell has now lifted, however, and Rumplestiltskin grows impatient.

"It means so much to have you here," Belle tells her father for the third time, grasping the Mole-Man's fleshy upper arm. Her face is shining; her wet eyes sparkle. She fondly straightens the crumpled, white peony pinned to her Papa's lapel.

The Mole-Man pats her flushed cheek clumsily, knocking her cream-colored bonnet slightly askew, murmuring: "Absolutely delighted, my dear. I am absolutely delighted."

The Cricket stands a little ways off, leaning against the mossy wishing well, his bright, foolish smile never faltering. Behind his spectacles, his eyes are glassy and brimful with unshed tears. He repeats over and over and still over again: "How wonderful! Oh, how wonderful!"

Rumplestiltskin wishes these two glamoured, babbling idiots would either vanish or learn to hold their bloody tongues.

"It's time to go, sweetheart," he says, taking Belle gently by the arm, and she smiles prettily, adjusting her hat and calling out her goodbyes.

"Thank you for such a lovely ceremony, Archie! Perhaps we could even recreate it someday soon, and I'll do my best to remember to bring a camera. Thank you, Papa! Thank you both!"

She waves her bouquet of white peonies—such a jaunty, joyful little farewell—and turns to follow him deeper into the forest.

Rumplestiltskin's chosen path is winding and narrow. Scarcely any moonlight can penetrate the twisting, groaning branches overhead. High above them, an owl with glinting, yellow eyes calls out _twoo-hoo-hoo-hoo, _and there is a low, answering rustle in the bushes nearby.

Crickets sing and hush, sing and hush.

Belle's slender, ladylike heals sink deep into the loamy forest soil, so she walks carefully upon the balls of her feet, taking tiny steps, lightly clutching his suit sleeve.

She laughs softly.

"Where are you taking me, Rumple?"

Her voice is breathy and conspiratorial, with mirth lurking just beneath the surface. Belle trusts him to lead the way, even along a narrow, craggy footpath into this rustic darkness. She is evidently expecting some sort of surprise.

"Home," he tells her simply and halts when they round the next bend.

They have come to a moonlit clearing. Tall field grass sways and softly whispers. Shadows from clouds high above them twirl, careen, and spill together, creating dusky whirlpools on the ground.

The pink house sits—stark and very lonesome—surrounded by dark, dense forest. A candle burns in each lead glazed window.

He turns to stare at his silent, watchful wife, curious to see how she will take it. The air around them has grown abruptly, unnaturally cool. Far off in the distance, overtop the town they need no longer visit, angry snow clouds have begun to gather.

After a pregnant pause, Belle squeezes his wrist and smiles up at him. Soft tendrils of hair have escaped from beneath her elegant wool bonnet. Brown leaves and dirt cling to her chaste, white stockings. There is an entrancing sheen of perspiration upon her downy upper lip. His darling girl has been utterly undone by this long walk.

"A honeymoon lodge, Rumple—but with all the comforts of home! What a wonderful idea! I only hope the price isn't too steep."

He thinks that this must be the precise moment to tell her: the rest of their _lives_ will become one glorious, extended honeymoon—that he has built her such a library—that she need never trouble herself with the monotony of housework or endless town meetings or the drudgery of shelving books or _bloody tedious conversations with tedious fools_ ever, ever again.

But when his dry lips part, Belle cautions him:

"We cannot stay away too long, Rumple. I've promised Henry that he may read aloud from the new translation of the Brothers Grimm at my next story time—he's wonderful with younger children, did you know that? And also—Snow asked if we would give a reading at Baby Neal's christening next weekend. I was thinking of a poem that I came upon yesterday at the library: _Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself..."_

She rattles along happily as he slides the key into the front door and continues her recitation as he locks the door behind her.

The house is dark and silent.

Inside the wood-paneled vestibule, Belle kicks off her muddy spectator pumps. Without her high heels, Rumplestiltskin's little wife shrinks several inches, and she looks younger still when he helps her out of her dainty bonnet. Her auburn hair, which was evidently pinned to the inside of the hat, has partially escaped its side-swept coils and tumbles fetchingly over one shoulder.

"I'm famished," Belle announces, her voice echoing throughout the empty, unlit rooms.

She drops her wilting bouquet upon the banister, inhales deeply, then pecks his ruddy cheek and pads toward the formal dining room in her soiled stocking feet.

"But of course you already thought of food—didn't you Rumple?"

She glances back at him over her shoulder, her blue eyes dancing, her lips a beguiling shade of rose red. Rumplestiltskin's cold skin prickles and warms. His stomach tightens.

Now, as it so happens, he _did_ think of food. Regular, corporal food that he purchased at the wharf or special ordered by mail. One final, farewell nod to Belle's odd preference for a life without magic.

Spread out across his dining room table is a glorious banquet of chilled _zakuski:_ dainty, buttered finger sandwiches, cold, plump oysters on the half shell, briny smoked trout, brimming glass bowlfuls of black caviar, crumbling, pungent cheeses, and several bottles of infused liquors and pink champagne, encased in artful blocks of ice.

"Cold feasts were a custom in my village," Rumplestiltskin says, reaching into his suit pocket and drawing out a little matchbook.

He bends forward to light two tall, white tapers resting on either side of an iced lemon bundt cake. Just a scant few inches away, a gilded box sits upon a platform at the very center of the feast. It contains two daggers: the real and the forgery. Earlier, he placed the fake inside this box at Belle's behest—for 'safekeeping' he told her—more than happy to yield once his purpose had been served.

Belle circles the long table, marveling at the array of pretty delicacies. The candlelight seems to light her pale skin from within.

"Well-off families would lay out chilled platters of food and iced drinks for newly married couples. The cold was thought to preserve happiness, to bestow vitality and long life, and also to assist with wakefulness and—_vigor_ on the wedding night."

Belle blushes sweetly at the bold word 'vigor,' and her downcast eyes fall upon a plate of miniature custard tarts. She lifts one to her lips, nibbling shyly around the crusty edge.

"Every toast given," Rumplestiltskin says, gesturing to the bottles of iced champagne and vodka with curling orange rind, "was rumored to add another year of married bliss."

He reaches for the nearest bottle and eases it out of its icy sleeve.

Belle watches as he untwists the silver wire that holds the champagne topper in place, then presses slowly into the cork with both thumbs. He aims the bottle away from her, over toward the kitchen, and there is a magnificent pop, followed by a fizzing rush of sticky-sweet liquid, wetting his hands and also the antique rug beneath his feet.

"Come over here, darling."

Rumplestiltskin clears a spot for her on his table, impatiently thrusting aside a shimmering, molded aspic, and holding out one hand. His gold cufflinks twinkle in the candlelight, and the creases of his palm are a frightful, sooty black.

Belle approaches, flushed and smiling, still holding onto her little tart.

She allows him to seat her on the tabletop and pour her a foaming, brimming glass of pink champagne.

"To many, many years of married bliss," he says, filling his own glass and lifting it in tribute.

"To married bliss," she echoes.

They each empty their cups in several long swallows—for luck and good health and _vigor._

Suddenly enraptured, emboldened, feeling as though his skin is on far too tight, Rumplestiltskin reaches around her for an oyster.

"Have you ever had them this way, pet?"

He holds up the lustrous, uneven shell—and the plump, gray morsel within—for Belle's curious inspection.

She shakes her head no.

"I've only had them breaded and baked. Or sometimes in a fish stew." She opens her mouth, and he quickly tilts the jagged oyster shell to her lips, sending some of the brackish water down her chin and splashing onto her prim, cream coat.

"This comes off now." His voice is rough.

When Rumplestiltskin pushes the demure jacket from his wife's shoulders, his fingernails are long and black.

Underneath, Belle is wearing a blouse of transparent, intricate white lace. Her lingerie—a stunning shade of indigo—is sheer as well.

He growls without realizing the sound belongs to him, then quickly passes his gray tongue over his lips and tosses the stained coat onto the floor.

"My 'something blue,' Rumple."

Belle glances down at her flushed chest and belly, visible through the delicate lace. He sees the dark tips of her little breasts as well, pebbled and pressed against the thin fabric.

He slowly reaches out both hands and passes his trembling thumbs over the darling, rosy peaks, his breath hitching when he feels them harden further beneath his touch.

Belle shivers, and her breath is coming quick as his, but her eyes have risen to his face.

"Your hair—" she says, her voice low and hoarse, "It's gone completely wild. You're in such a state, Rumple—"

Her hand darts out to brush the tangles back from his eyes, and he can see that what Belle says it true from his reflection in the dining room window. His hair looks like it did lifetimes ago in the Dark Castle when he rarely washed and never combed it.

"Never mind my hair," he groans, stepping closer and pressing in between her open knees.

"Your _eyes,_ Rumple," Belle says, her voice very soft, very far away, "Something is the matter with your pupils—they're so _large…"_

She twines her arms around his neck, staring up into his amber eyes.

Rumplestiltskin curses and ducks his head to kiss the juncture of her neck and shoulder, muttering, _"What big eyes I have."_

She laughs—then sighs when his kisses continue upwards along her throat. He bites her gently, just below the ear, and presses his pelvis against the edge of the table, tugging impatiently at her filthy tights.

"What sharp teeth you have," she whispers, then allows her head to fall back while he removes her stockings.

"Rumple, look at the windows! The panes are all iced over—"

"Never mind it," he snarls, tracing his long nails up the insides of her thighs, "Never mind it, pet."

When his fingers finally find the place they seek, Belle's eyes flutter shut, and she finds she is only too happy to let the world outside the dining room fall away.

Outside it has begun to snow.

(The quoted poem is Khalil Gibran's 'On Children.')


	4. We Have Always Lived in the Castle

Belle wakes in that raw, forsaken hour just before dawn with a crick in her neck and a pleasant, pulsing ache in the warm crevice between her thighs. Her arms feel slack and heavy, as if someone slit her open while she slept and replaced all her blood and bone and sinew with sand and stone. Tangled strands of hair have caught in her eyelashes and cling to her damp temples.

Her throat is sore and dry from overuse.

Rumplestiltskin is draped over her belly, his thick torso lodged between her parted legs. His eyelids flicker, and his breathing is heavy and even—the gratified exhalations of deep, recuperative rest.

The sharp angles of his nose and brow are pressed into the crease beneath her left breast, and his right hand grasps her firmly about the waist. His too-long nails bite into her skin, leaving behind a mosaic of bruised, blue crescents when his fingers twitch and shift. His pale, bare thigh is thrown carelessly over her knee, and his wild snarl of brown and gray curls tickles her rib cage.

Her lover always clings to her like ivy while he sleeps.

Belle savors this untried new word, 'lover,' rolling it around on her dry tongue like a sugar candy while she considers how best to extract herself without waking her slumbering husband. She is in dire need of a trip to the washroom, a glass of water, and plate of food from their neglected feast downstairs.

Yet at this moment—hungry, thirsty, sprawled upon these twisted sheets, her feet tucked beneath the disordered blankets, lovingly pinned in place to this soft bed—she feels all at once exhausted and content, like a happy castaway upon the shores of marriage.

She remembers—being roughly lifted from the dining room table and carried here, as if she weighed no more than a decorative cushion or an extra throw blanket.

She remembers—sleet rattling the windows while her husband struggled wretchedly with the little button and zip on his trousers, sweating and panting and muttering curses.

She remembers—the way he spun her round to face the bed, mumbling apologies, saying that he only wanted to spare her the ugliness of his crooked, shattered old ankle.

She remembers—the strange choking noises (oh, how she blushes to remember them now!) he had coaxed from her mouth, lifting her sheer blouse up over her head, easing his cold hands beneath the stiff, metal underwire of her lingerie, cupping and gently squeezing her little breasts, molding them to fit his palms.

She remembers—the way he had begun to pinch and rhythmically tug at her achy, puckered nipples, resting his pointed chin upon her shoulder, making her breath come shallow and quick. It had seemed to push him into an absolute frenzy when she shuddered beneath his insistent touch, then pushed forward against his jerking, greedy thumbs and forefingers, her scalp prickling and her face on fire.

"Yes, pet! That's it! Let yourself—let yourself, darling—"

His right hand had trembled and plunged lower, hastily hiking up the hem of her wedding skirt and sinking deep into her lace underthings to alternately cup and fondle her sex, reverently caressing the soft, damp curls he found there with cold fingertips.

Belle had lasted standing upright only a few moments after thatglorious intrusion, then fallen forward to brace herself against the bedspread—panting and shivering in real earnest now—with flat, sweating palms and curled fingers, begging him:

"Please Rumple, I can't—please, I think I need to—"

She had broken off her pleading with a low, frantic moan, then pulled him clumsily along with her so that she could go down on all fours upon the wide mattress and rock to and fro with his left hand massaging her little breast and his right hand moving deeper and quicker between her spread thighs. Each sharp tug at her nipple was welcomed with a grateful, keening, eager, "Ah!'

"My little beauty! My Belle! My wife!"

Her husband had moaned his approval and his fond, explicit praise into her shoulder blade, rocking faithfully overtop her, matching her shuddering, jerky rhythm, his chest hot against her heaving back.

"Let me help you get there, Belle! Oh, that's it—that's it, little love—"

Her pretty wool skirt was bunched up around her waist, and her lace underthings were nearly off due to the determined, ferocious intensity of her rocking, but Belle's vision had steadily darkened and narrowed—her animal brain had taken control of her body, and her urgent, gasping movements were outside of conscious thought.

"Please, Rumple—Please, Rumple—please! I need to—"

She could entreat no more specifically than this, not yet understanding the precise nature of what she was begging him for—perhaps only that this rigid tightness of muscle and coiled tension in her belly would somehow ease, and she would be permitted to stop panting and moaning like a cornered, wild thing. On some level, she had realized there would be no backing away from this fearsome edge—she would need to either go over it, or she would surely die.

"Oh, yes, pet! I know you need to—I need to, too. Lay down, little love. I'll show you!—lay down on my hand…"

In an instant, he had torn his fingers from her tender breast and yanked her delicate lace drawers down around her knees, then roughly nudged her to collapse upon his damp right palm, still tightly cupping her inflamed sex. He had urged her fiercely to struggle and push against it: "Yes, that's it—that's it—!"

She had felt him then—the broad tip of him—hot and blunt against the slick flesh below his curling, cupping hand—and this was the part of coupling that she had read about in secret—that it would hurt, that there might be tearing and blood, but that it would soon feel better, so,so much better. Meanwhile, her husband was guiding himself—just the smooth, searing tip of himself—to press against her hot center and whispering for her to simply 'let yourself—oh, love, let yourself…"

Rocking forward against his palm and backwards against his tip—teasing her own feverish core with his swollen, straining sex—it had felt both torturous and wildly ecstatic. The stretched sensation when he breached her entrance by a half an inch wasn't painful, but ratherblissful, and her frantic rhythm—momentarily lost when she had dropped lower onto the bed—returned to her almost immediately.

"Oh Belle!—Oh Belle!—Oh Belle…"

The farther back she rocked, the deeper he sank, and the more he babbled and cursed.

Hearing her husband lose his mind only a few inches above her was an intoxicant all its own, headier than sweet champagne, more potent than liquor. Even with her eyes squeezed shut—even lying flat on the bed, her hands gripping the blankets—Belle had found herself literallydizzy with desire.

They had struggled recklessly onwards together—him groaning her name, her gasping and straining like a desperate, hungry, feral thing—until he had worked his full length all the way inside her, and her vision was nothing more than pinpricks of light surrounded by deep, sooty darkness.

And then there came a terrifying moment of inevitability—hanging onto the very edge of the precipice, unable to breathe, her movements suddenly small and determined and very jerky—and afterwards she had cried out and tumbled over, her leg and belly muscles spasming, a series of low, unladylike groans spilling from her open mouth.

Her husband had followed fast behind her, making strange, high-pitched noises while thrusting rapidly, convulsing, then letting his full weight fall upon her overheated back.

After, he had clumsily stroked her mussed hair and whispered his thanks, as if she had granted him some great favor, and Belle had found within herself the strength to roll over and draw him upwards to her warm, pleasantly thrumming breast, wanting him to listen to her heart, to hear how fast it beat, to know how well he'd loved her.

There they lay, and there she woke.

Belle now watches her husband closely.

His brow is furrowed by some troublesome dream. He mutters, _"No—don't, Bae," _then digs his nails deeper into her hip bone and abruptly rolls off her and onto his side.

Seizing the opportunity, Belle slides from bed and stands on unsteady legs, cautiously arching her sore back.

Yawning and wrapping herself in one of Rumplestiltskin's blue silk robes, she walks downstairs into the darkness, trailing her fingertips over the textured wallpaper.

Everything is nearly as they left it.

The tapers have long ago burned down to nothing and snuffed themselves out. The thick ice has mostly melted from the champagne and liquor bottles. A small pool of water is dripping over the edge of the table and wetting the wool rug below.

Belle is collecting finger sandwiches and custard tarts upon a plate when a flare of light outside the nearest window arrests her attention.

She crosses the room to stand beside the frosted glass, and her mind circles back to the odd, unseasonable cold she felt earlier, the strange sleet, the quickly falling snow.

Rubbing the window pane with the heel of her hand, she is able to get a little glimpse of the world outside: snow is piled up against the siding of the pink house, and high, white drifts cover the clearing.

Far off towards town—or rather, the direction she assumes town must be in, having partly lost her bearings in the woods—a strange, shimmering blue haze hangs low in the air like a sinister _aurora borealis._ It is a chill, ominous sight—almost certainly magical—and Belle heads for the front door to get a closer, clearer look.

She steps carefully into her heels—and aren't they the very height of impracticality on such a strange, wintry night?—and reaches for the brass doorknob. For a tense moment, she struggles with it, not realizing that the door has been dead bolted twice over.

She pauses, thinking that perhaps she should wake Rumple.

"What exactly are you doing, Belle?"

From across the dim room, her husband's voice is stony and peculiar.

She turns round to look at him and can see nothing more than a vague profile, a dark shadow at the foot of the stairs. Only his large eyes are visible, glinting yellow in the darkness.

"Something strange is happening, Rumple. I think something may be wrong in town. I'm going to step outside and take a closer look."

She turns back to the door, reaching for the stubborn handle.

"But our lives are here now."

His voice is suddenly very close, very near to the shell of her ear, sounding very chill and very certain. He must have used magic to cross the room so rapidly. She has asked him not to do this—she finds it unnerving.

"Our lives are here, and there is no need to concern ourselves withthat town and its petty problems and its troublesome inhabitantsever again. Our life is this house—this love between us. Come along back to bed, Belle."

With a careless flourish of his hand, the drapes surrounding each tall window snap shut, and the heavy deadbolts click back into place.

The room is plunged into total darkness. Only his yellow eyes remain.

She feels long fingernails, sharp against her waist, catching on the thin silk robe.

Her heart begins to pound faster.

"I wasn't asking, Rumple," she informs the sudden darkness. "I don't need your permission to go out of doors."

"And yet, I am your husband. Where your safety is concerned, I will take no chances." He sounds so strange.

She hears a soft snap of his fingers, and the white candles upon the dining room table suddenly reconstitute themselves, tall and lovely once again, bursting back into flame.

She is able to see him clearly then, in the low, flickering light, the terrible change that has come over him—his skin is a fearsome, mottled gray, his amber eyes are wide and luminous, and his snarled hair tumbles down past his shoulders. His teeth, when he grins at her, are in a state of pitiful decay.

She tries again: "You aren't speaking sensibly, Rumple! Something has come over you—look at your skin! This is your curse speaking! Do you really mean to say you intend to never leave this house? That you want us to give up seeing our family, our friends?"

He shrugs, unmoved, studying the back of his hand.

"My family is dead. My family is here in this house with me."

This is his baffling rejoinder.

"Anyhow, what use are these friends? Why do you want to go to town anyway? Tired of your husband already, pet? Is it time to visit the tavern and get lost in a drink?"

He takes a step towards her, and Belle realizes that she is afraid—really and truly afraid now—just as she was at the very beginning, when she wept alone in a dank dungeon cell. She spins back to face the front door and begins to struggle in earnest with the lock—just as she spent her first two days in the Dark Castle struggling and banging against an impossibly thick wood door.

Sensing the futility, she lets out a wet, helpless little laugh. Her fingers are shaking. When she speaks, she addresses the door.

"Rumple, I love you. I married you. But—this isn't you, and—I willnever be a prisoner again!"

Breathing hard, she bravely ducks around him and runs to the dining room table, snatching up the gilded box and throwing open the lid.

His dagger is still inside, just where they left it, and Belle grips it firmly and raises it up to eye level, tears pooling in her eyes and spilling over her cheeks.

"So you are determined to leave me?"

His voice is remarkably calm. He watches her with interest from beneath heavy, hooded lids.

"I love you, and I will never leave you, Rumple, but—I am determined to help our friends, if ever they need my help. I am determined to live a full life outside of this house!"

"And you are determined to control me with my own dagger?"

"I don't want to. Please stop this, Rumple!—I will, but I don't want to!"

"I see."

In his fisted, gray hand, gleaming metal appears, etched with fearsome, black letters. The true dagger!—she realizes straightaway. The true dagger! How could she have been so blind? The hilt of the imposter weapon grows unbearably hot in her palm, and she drops it to the floor with a soft, pained cry. Rumplestiltskin crosses the room to stand before her, his manner calm and cool and very patient.

He strokes her wet cheek, then trails his sharp fingernails lower, along the length of her neck, stopping to rest just above her heart.

"My heart belongs to you," he explains carefully, as if she is an adored but willful child, "and yours belongs to me, Belle. I'll keep it safe for you. I'll keep it safe until you're ready to hear reason, stay away from my dagger, and keep yourself out of harm's way. I don't want to fight tonight. Not on our wedding night. Not when our lives have grown so sweet. Oh Belle, we are going to be so happy together…"

When his fingers first sink into her chest, there is bright, searing pain, and he winces in sympathy, making low, soothing noises.

His hand feels icy cold around her heart. When he withdraws the pulsing, pink organ, she is amazed to still be standing—standing and staring at her own heart!—so bright and pink and healthy!—so strong and lovely!

They both admire it for a moment in the candlelight.

"You're beautiful, through and through, Belle," he softly praises.

Rumplestiltskin then walks slowly over to the gilded box on the dining room table and places her heart carefully within it, along with the true dagger. He seals the box with glowing, golden magic.

"Well, now that that nasty business is concluded, shall we get you something to eat, pet? What would you like best? If it isn't here, I'll summon it! Anything for my wife!"

He giggles and motions her over to the table.

"I—I don't know what I'd like to eat." Belle is baffled. "I cannot tell."

"Well, no matter. I know exactly what you like. Come here, darling, come and have a bit of cake."

At this suggestion, Belle is flooded with relief. Yes! Cake is exactly what she wants. Rumple knows! Rumple knows—!

"Here, my little love, have a great, big bite." She settles upon his knee and opens her mouth gladly. Rumplestiltskin proceeds to dote upon her with spoon and fork and napkin.

After her husband has claimed her heart, Belle's days begin to bleed into one another. Sometimes there is a brief, unbearable tension, when she wishes to do something that may displease him, and shortly thereafter follows the pleasure of tension relieved when she chooses instead to follow his wishes.

Just as in their earliest days together, she waits upon him at table. He likes to take her onto his lap and feed her elegant, magical food that tastes of nothing. He still wraps his body around her at night, but he seems to have no physical desires beyond this. It greatly displeases him when he finds her standing absently beside the locked front door, but the tension is relieved when he takes her by the hand and leads her back into the heart of the pink house.

One snowy Sunday, Belle is standing beside a shuttered window, feeling somewhat vacant and lost. She is surprised to hear a loudthwump against the front door, as if some great beast has thrown all its weight upon the wood. It is impossible to know whether she wishes to run away or to struggle with the deadbolt and let it in. Rumplestiltskin is upstairs drawing her a bath, and she cannot know what she feels until her husband tells her.

There is another terrible crash, followed by a third loud thwump, and then the front door flies open, and a whirling winter storm swirls into the foyer.

Over the threshold steps a magnificent woman draped in white furs. Her skin is pale and smooth as a snowdrop, her shoulders are thrown far back, and her white hair is scraped away from her face in a thick braid that falls all the way to the floor.

She asks, "Who are you, girl? Why are you living like a mole in this dark and stuffy house? Where is the wizard, Rumplestiltskin?"

If Belle were still capable of exitable emotions like astonishment or fear, she would surely have startled, but instead she simply cocks her head to one side and watches the intruder, wondering aloud:

"What are you?"

"That's none of your concern," the Snow Queen sniffs, then stares around the darkened room, her face softening somewhat. "You have been his prisoner too, haven't you?"

"No," Belle answers, quite certain of this fact. "No, I am his wife."

The Snow Queen's pale eyes narrow, but she makes no reply.

They both turn, hearing Rumplestiltskin's quick steps upon the stairs.

"Rumple, someone is here to see you." Belle looks to him to know if she should be afraid or simply curious.

"Yes, indeed," he answers, his voice dangerous and soft as silt, "This is an entirely unexpected surprise. What do you want, witch?"

He comes to stand between them, pushing Belle's body behind his own, and she feels relief, because now she understands what he wishes: her husband wishes for her to hide.

She rests her forehead against Rumplesiltskin's bony back and listens while the strange woman speaks.

"Not 'witch' and you know it, toad. Fairy. This is simply an overdue social visit. Did you know, little lamb," the Snow Queen speaks over Rumplestiltskin's shoulder, directing her words to Belle, "that I was this wizard's prisoner for several centuries?"

The Snow Queen takes careful inventory of the room and then raises both arms high above her head. There is a flash of pale light, and Rumplestiltskin is suddenly anchored to the wood floor, trapped within a swirling, ghoulish blue light-magic.

Belle stumbles away from him, for this fairy spell is too cold to touch, calling out, "Rumple!" her hand pressed to her mouth.

"Here, child. This must belong to you." The Snow Queen has wandered into the dining room and lifted the lid to the gilded box. She has taken hold of the dagger—and is also holding out Belle's heart.

Belle shakes her head, staring at her grimacing husband. His gray lips are turning blue. "No, my heart belongs to him now."

The Snow Queen regards her carefully, then softly taps the pink organ just once, turning it to brilliant, sparkling ice.

"There, that will serve you so much better. Here, in it goes, girl."

Without another word, she thrusts the icy heart back within Belle's chest. "Remember this: your heart is yours. Never part with it. It is far too dangerous to give it over to someone else."

With another swirl of fairy magic, the single, red rose and bouquet of white peonies on Rumplestiltskin's bookshelf unfurl into full-grown men: Gaston and Maurice French. Two wooden dolls straighten up in a rocking chair and scurry towards the open door, snatching up the silverware as they go. Other strangers and odd creatures come out of the woodwork, blinking and stretching and gazing around in confusion.

"You are all free," the Snow Queen informs them. "He cannot hold you any longer. Go now, and become no man's prisoner ever again."

Belle runs to her Papa. Her chest is cold, but at least she knows her own mind. Taking Gaston and her father firmly by the elbow, she guides them toward the open door, glancing back over her shoulder at her husband and the Snow Queen.

The Snow Queen smiles.

She looks very wise, very sure.

"But—he is my True Love! How will I go on living without him?" Belle's tears freeze to her cheeks before they can fall.

"I imagine you'll go on living the same way you've lived the majority of your life, before he stole your heart away," the Snow Queen says quietly, "With dignity. With courage. You must be the queen of your own destiny."

Belle sobs, ducks her head, and escapes out the door.

"She'll come back," Rumplestiltskin tells the interloper through rotting, grit teeth, "She always come back to me."

"You really think so?"

The Snow Queen studies him, her pale head tilted to one side.

"I know it—so do what you've come here to do, witch. _For Belle's sake."_

With a curt nod, the Snow Queen raises her arms once more, and Rumplestiltskin is caught up in a fearsome, swirling, white storm.

Epilogue

In the middle of an overgrown clearing, deep within the darkest woods, there is a decaying pink house. It is always dark inside, and the windows are always shuttered.

On a high shelf, there is a little figurine made of ice that never melts. Its nose is sharp and pointed; its expression is resigned.

Sometimes Belle Gold goes to this clearing and stares at this ramshackle house, but she never goes within. It is far too dangerous. Her heart is safe.


End file.
